User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 26
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Twenty-Six 14 November 1963 Minerva had to concentrate on keeping her pace merely brisk. It wouldn’t do for the deputy headmistress to be seen breaking the school rule against running in the hallways. Once she was through the massive doors and down the stone steps, she glanced around and, seeing nobody, popped into her Animagus form and sprinted down the path to the Apparition point just beyond the gates. When she arrived in London a moment later, she didn’t even look around to make sure there were no Muggles about before walking through the window of the dilapidated department store and into the reception area of St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Striding up to the Welcome Witch, who was using her wand to change the colour of her fingernails from aggressive red to lurid pink, Minerva asked, “Alastor Moody’s room?” The witch put down her wand with a barely concealed sigh and took her time looking down the roster of patients. “Fourth floor, room fifteen.” “Thank you,” Minerva threw over her shoulder as the witch called after her, “But it’s a secure room! You’ll need clearance—” There was a young wizard wearing the dark-green robes of a junior-level Auror standing guard outside the room. “Sorry, Professor,” he said when she asked him to lower the wards for her. “You can’t go in. Not without special clearance.” The fellow looked embarrassed, and she recalled that he had been in her N.E.W.T. class about four years back. “Mr Shacklebolt, you know perfectly well who I am. I am not here to harm Auror Moody; I simply would like to visit him.” “Sorry, Professor,” he said again. “Ministry policy. After an Auror’s wounded by a suspected Dark wizard, no one gets in to see him without permission from the office.” She drew herself up to her full height and let the weight of her glare fall on the hapless young man. “Mr Shacklebolt—” she began in her sternest tone, but she was interrupted by a loud voice from within. “Oh, let ’er in, Shacklebolt. I’ll take the heat if it turns out she’s Mulciber in disguise.” “You can’t take the heat if you’re dead, Moody,” the young man called back through the door. “Just let ’er in. I’ve got me wand back; I can defend meself.” Kingsley Shacklebolt turned back to his former teacher, who looked at him, an eyebrow raised expectantly. “Well?” she said. Shacklebolt sighed, then used his wand to lift the wards on the door. “Thank you,” Minerva said as she sailed past him into the room. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her when she saw Alastor. There was a mess of raw meat where the right side of his previously bulbous nose-tip had been. The same side of his face was now bisected by an angry red cicatrice that ran from under the bandage that covered his right eye down to the corner of his mouth. The outside half of his cheek was far whiter than living flesh should have been, while the section between the scar and his nose—or what was left of it—looked as if it had been cooked too long under a tropical sun. It was a moment before she realised his wand was pointing at her. “Where was the last place I shagged you?” he demanded. “I beg your pardon?” “Where?” She felt her face grow hot. “Your flat, two weeks ago.” “Yeah, but where?” “The sitting room floor,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Merlin, she hoped young Shacklebolt wasn’t listening. But he probably was. Alastor lowered his wand and grinned at her, a rather terrifying sight as things stood; she thought for a moment that his face was coming apart. “And a right good shag it was, too,” he said. When she didn’t reply, he said, “Jaysus, Maria, ’n Joseph, I must look bad. I didn’t even get the McGonagall glare out of you for that.” “You look … as well as can be expected.” “Ah, lass. You’ve never been a liar before. Come over here. I can’t see you properly.” She moved to the left side of the bed, Summoning a chair to follow her, and sat, reaching out to put a tentative hand on his chest. “Are you in pain?” she asked. “Nah. Not much. They’ve got me on a few potions. But I think it’s more to keep me quiet than to ease my pain—a man’s like to go mad in here.” “I came as soon as I heard, Alastor. Albus only just—” “I know, love, I know. The office likes to keep it quiet when one of us gets hurt. Seeing as you’re not … well, you’re not officially my next of kin, they didn’t … but you’re here now,” he said taking her hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “It was good of Dumbledore to let you know.” She had been sitting at the small desk in her quarters when she was startled by a flash from her fireplace. She had been even more shocked when Albus uncrouched and stepped out, brushing the ashes from his royal blue robes. He almost never used the Hogwarts Floo to contact her. He’d told her quickly and without preliminaries that he had come straight from the Ministry after learning that Alastor Moody had been gravely injured in an attack several days previously. “Go, Minerva,” he’d urged her. “Don’t worry about dinner or your patrols; I’ll have someone cover them. Owl me if you’ll need me to take your classes tomorrow.” Minerva hadn’t even stopped to thank him—an oversight she’d rectify the moment she returned to Hogwarts, she told herself—but snatched up her cloak and left him standing in her sitting room. He hadn’t told her anything of Alastor’s condition, so she’d been unprepared for what had greeted her once she’d got to Mungo’s. “How badly are you hurt?” she finally asked Alastor. “Not too bad, considering,” he answered. “My face took the brunt of it, as you can see. But everything’s in working order. ’Cept me eye. Couldn’t save that.” “Oh, Alastor …” she said. “Don’t give me ‘oh, Alastor,’ Minerva. They’re going to fit me up with a magical replacement soon as the wound closes up. From what I hear, it’ll be better than the original. I’ll be able to see through thin walls. Maybe even clothes, eh?” He waggled his remaining eyebrow suggestively, and her heart nearly broke. “None of that, now, love,” he said when he saw the tears standing in the corners of her eyes. “It isn’t much loss. I wasn’t ever much to look at …” “You’re beautiful, Alastor,” she said, running her hand down the unharmed side of his face. He turned his head to kiss her palm. “No, love, I’m not,” he said quietly. “I’ll have scars for the rest of my life. Ever seen an old Auror? They end up looking like jigsaw puzzles with a couple of pieces gone missing.” “I don’t care, Alastor, just as long as you live to be an old Auror.” “Yeah, well …” he said, clearly embarrassed by her unwonted show of emotion. Changing the subject a bit, she asked, “Can you tell me what happened?” Alastor gave her the short version: One of the many Dark wizards he’d helped put in Azkaban had been released after a ten-year stretch. As soon as he was free, Gordon Mulciber had gone looking for Alastor Moody and had caught up with him outside Ballycastle, where the Auror had gone to investigate one of the incidents of Muggle-baiting that occurred sporadically around the area. He’d been alone—it was a fairly routine investigation—and Mulciber had been on him the moment he’d stepped into the house where the alleged incident had occurred. “A set-up,” Alastor said. “You mean Mulciber was responsible for the Muggle incident?” asked Minerva. “Him, or one of his friends. They knew I’d be the one got the assignment since I know the area best of anyone in the department.” It was only thanks to Alastor’s legendary reflexes that the severing hex had only taken his eye and part of his nose rather than his entire head. At least, that was the conclusion Minerva drew later when she learnt more about the incident from Albus, who heard the story from the head of MLE. As she was standing to go, with a promise to come back the next day with decent food and some reading material, Alastor caught her hand. “They haven’t caught him yet, Minerva. Mulciber. I want you to be extra careful. Keep those estimable wits about you. People know we’re together. It’s possible Mulciber might try to get at me through you.” “I’ll be careful, Alastor. Try not to worry.” She bent down to kiss him but hesitated, not knowing if it would hurt his injured face. He answered the question by reaching up and pulling her to his lips. “I love you, Minerva,” he said quietly. She smiled at him, saying, “Get well.” “Yes, Professor.” It wasn’t until she was safely back in her quarters than she broke down in grateful sobs. 2 December 1963 Albus was surprised when the little barn owl dropped the note bearing Alastor Moody’s name into his hands. He’d never had any correspondence with the Auror before, and he couldn’t imagine why Moody was now requesting a meeting—a “quick, quiet meeting, maybe in the Hog’s Head?” When Albus arrived at the tavern the following day, Aberforth acknowledged him with a bow of his head and gestured upstairs, indicating Moody had already arrived and was waiting in one of the small, private rooms above the Hog’s Head bar. “Dumbledore,” Moody said, standing when Albus entered the room, “thanks for coming.” It was a shock to see Moody’s face; there was angry scarring down the right side and patches of hair were absent from his scalp on the same side. His nose appeared to be missing a significant chunk. But the most arresting feature was the electric-blue magical eye that was darting left and right independent of its natural mate. Albus had heard a bit about Moody’s injuries from Minerva, but he hadn’t been prepared for the dramatic change in the Auror’s appearance. “It’s good to see you, Alastor,” Dumbledore said without betraying his shock. “Are you adjusting well to the prosthesis?” he asked, indicating the magical eye. “Aye,” said Moody. “Took some getting used to, but now I think I like it better than the old eye. I can get three-sixty-degree vision if I work it right. Damn useful.” “Indeed,” said Dumbledore. “It isn’t much to look at though,” Moody added quietly. “You’ll become used to it.” “Isn’t me so much I’m worried about,” Moody said. Then he changed the subject quickly. “I won’t keep you long, Dumbledore; I know yer a busy man, so I’ll come right to the point. What do you know about Gerald Macnair’s disappearance?” Albus was surprised again. He had rather expected the subject of their meeting to be something to do with Minerva, but he hadn’t counted on this. He felt uncomfortable for a moment with both Alastor’s good eye and his magical one peering at him. “No more than what little was said of it at the time,” he replied. “Minerva’s never told you about it?” “No, other than a few oblique references to her circumstances at the time. She doesn’t like to speak of it, I think,” Dumbledore said. “No, she doesn’t,” Moody agreed. “She’s not told me much, either. But I’ve done some digging—” Dumbledore interrupted, “Alastor, perhaps you ought to discuss this with her.” “Yeah, I know,” Moody said, and for a moment Albus thought he discerned a slight flush on the good side of his face. “But I don’t want to upset her.” “Then why bring all this up?” Albus was truly curious. Why would Moody want to stir up a subject that would indubitably upset Minerva and possibly cause a rift between them? “If I tell you, will you keep it to yerself?” Alastor asked, peering at Albus even more intently. It was no wonder Moody was such a successful interrogator. His penetrating gaze—even altered as it was—was a formidable weapon. Albus considered. It was no small thing, he thought, to promise secrecy, although Merlin knew he’d required it often enough of others. If Alastor was nosing around in Minerva’s business and had discovered something that she hadn’t elected to share, what would be the consequences if she were to discover that Albus knew about it? Their relationship had recovered, more or less, from Albus’s astounding discovery of Malcolm’s paternity. They’d tiptoed around one another for several months and had finally settled back into a friendship that was only slightly strained. Neither had known quite how to proceed regarding Malcolm, and for a time, each had studiously avoided mentioning the boy, although Albus knew Minerva was desperately curious about his private tutoring sessions with her son and what the two talked about. Albus was slightly ashamed at being unable to bring himself to volunteer the information, and he didn’t care to examine whether it was because he was protecting Malcolm’s privacy or because he was punishing Minerva. For the most part, Malcolm and Albus had simply worked on controlling the boy’s invisibility, Albus carefully avoiding any more personal exchanges. They’d had an uncomfortable discussion when, one evening, Malcolm had appeared to be unusually distracted. After some gently probing questions from Albus, Malcolm had confessed to being distressed about wanting to end his relationship with Miss Nott before leaving school. The boy had felt bad about “leading her on,” as he put it, to believe it was to be a “long-term” romance. Albus had lectured him on the importance of being honest with the girl, and he had forced himself to ask if there were any reason Annabel might have a claim on Malcolm. He was relieved that the boy appeared to be shocked at his implication, and he didn’t ask if it was because Malcolm hadn’t slept with the girl or because he had been careful when doing so. He had no desire to discuss the matter with Malcolm further—ironic, he had later thought, given how the young man himself had been conceived. Once Malcolm had left school, it had become easier between Albus and Minerva, and eventually he had felt comfortable enquiring about the young man’s progress in his apprenticeship. Minerva, he thought, was relieved at his interest and began to share some of Malcolm’s letters with Albus. They’d even got to the point where they could speculate together on the seriousness of Malcolm’s intentions toward his French girlfriend. From his letters—which were liberally sprinkled with mentions of “Eliane”—Albus suspected they were quite serious indeed, while Minerva maintained a pronounced scepticism on the point. Alastor nudged Albus out of his thoughts. “Well, Professor? Can you keep a confidence?” Albus made a decision. “Yes.” “I’m looking into Macnair’s disappearance because I want to marry Minerva.” Albus said nothing for a few moments. This information was not entirely surprising, but he still wasn’t certain what Moody was playing at by involving him in his prenuptial investigations. “That is fine news indeed, Alastor. But what has Macnair to do with anything? As far as I recall, he’s been declared dead, so there would be no legal impediment to your marriage.” “It isn’t the legal end so much, Professor. But we both know of cases where someone has been declared dead, then waltzed back into town to cause trouble.” It had been before Albus’s time on the Wizengamot, but he’d heard enough about it from Elphias Doge, who’d sat on the case. A witch, apparently unhappy in her arranged marriage, had disappeared one night, leaving her husband and small children behind. The witch had been declared dead after a year, and the wizard had subsequently remarried. When the witch reappeared some two years later, demanding custody of her children, the former husband had refused. The sorry tale had ended with the witch killing the new wife and children and cursing the husband to madness. Albus said, “I doubt Macnair is going to reappear, Alastor. In all honesty, I must tell you that I believe it is likely he is truly dead, given his difficulties with creditors.” “That’s what I thought,” said Moody. “Until I found this.” He pulled a sheaf of parchment from his robe pocket and handed it to Dumbledore. Albus looked at him questioningly as he took it. He said, “This appears to be a collection of news clippings.” “It is. Dunno if you read French, but—” “I do.” “Then you’ll have an easier road understanding it than I did.” Albus looked through the clippings for a few minutes. Putting them down on the table, he said, “So it appears this Berquier fellow was taken for questioning in the matter but later released.” “Yeah. And that’s all the papers have about it. I looked through every bloody copy for a year following, but there wasn’t anything else.” “Wasn’t there?” “Don’t you think that’s odd?” “I don’t know. Is it?” “Look, this Berquier sod, he was an important man, right? Chevalier de l’Ordre d’ Auberon and all? Sits on the French watchamacallit … Conseil des Sorciers?” “Evidently.” “So he gets pulled in for questioning—story makes the papers—and then nothing? No mention of it but a paragraph a week later saying he was released?” “So?” “So someone pulled some strings to keep it all quiet.” Alastor shrugged. “That’s not so surprising. Happens all the time. But it made me wonder what came of the investigation. So I tried to find out. Guess what?” “What?” “Records are sealed. I went to their Palais de Justice Magique after I got out of Mungo’s—I’m on leave until the new year—” Alastor explained, indicating his eye. “And they tried to tell me they couldn’t give me the records.” It was suddenly clear to Albus why Alastor had wanted to meet with him. “Alastor, I can do nothing.” Moody pounced. “You’ve got as much pull as the Minister—probably more, when it comes down to it. You sit on the International Confederation … you know people. You could get those records, and no one would bat an eye at you. Just tell ’em we’re trying to close the books on Macnair—that’s true enough; they don’t need to know it isn’t exactly the Ministry doing the closing.” “I cannot involve myself in this,” Albus said. “Come off it, Professor. You involve yourself in lots of things that aren’t, strictly speaking, your business. You don’t even need to do it yourself; just write to someone and let ’em know they should let me have the records.” “And how would you read them, Alastor? You don’t speak French.” “I could copy ’em and bring ’em back here for you to translate. That way, it’d just be between you and me.” Albus said nothing for a moment, and Alastor, with his interrogator’s sense, moved in for the kill. “I’m not asking for me, Professor. It’s Minerva. I want her to have a sense of security. I want her to know that, when I get down on me knees and ask her to be my wife, it’ll be forever, and there’ll be nothing to come between us. She deserves that.” Albus naturally understood that Moody was attempting to manipulate him, and yet, the man had a point. Alastor couldn’t know it, of course, but Albus had his own reasons for wanting Minerva to be happy, to be secure. Despite what she had said about it, Albus felt responsible for her. Regardless of the way it had happened, he had altered the course of her life, for better or worse, and it weighed on him. Perhaps … perhaps helping Moody close the Macnair chapter on her life would not be a terrible thing. What was that phrase from the Christian Bible? The truth will set you free. Albus had his doubts about that, but perhaps, in this case, it would prove accurate. “All right,” Albus said finally. “I will make a private request to the commandant of the Maréchaussée Magique to allow you to see the records. I cannot promise that he will accede, however …” “Ah, thanks, Professor,” Alastor said. It was just before Christmas that Alastor got Dumbledore’s note letting him know that access to the records had been arranged. They wouldn’t send copies, however, so he would have to look at them at the Palais, so one Tuesday, he made the nauseating trip to back to Paris. The Palais de Justice Magique was hidden directly under the Louvre. As Alastor passed by the Code of Hammurabi and through the door of the public toilet marked "Hors Service" and into the magical elevator that would take him down to the third level, where the records were kept, he felt a familiar thrum of excitement. It was the same sensation he got when he was closing in on a suspected Dark wizard. Five minutes after presenting the records clerk with his letter, signed by none other than the Ministre de la Justice Magique himself, Alastor had in his hands a red folder about a half inch thick. The clerk, no doubt impressed by Alastor’s apparent acquaintance with his boss, or perhaps frightened by his appearance, offered him the use of a small table in the office, and Alastor sat for forty-five minutes making copies of the documents, forcing himself to work the spell mechanically, avoiding any attempt to read the papers. The moment he was back in London, he owled Dumbledore and arranged to meet him to hand off the copies he had made of the copies (you couldn’t be too careful) for translation. Five frustrating days later—Alastor’s French really wasn’t very good, so he’d been able to make little sense of the jargony French while he waited—the professor handed him the translated work. When Alastor pressed him for a capsule summary, Dumbledore demurred. “It is better, Alastor, if you read the report for yourself. I wouldn’t want to bias any of your conclusions, even inadvertently.” What the hell did that mean? But Alastor didn’t waste much time wondering. He took the report back to his flat, made himself a cup of tea, and began to read. ← Back to Chapter 25 On to Chapter 27→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A